


God Rest Ye Zombied Gentlemen

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Curses, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Kissing, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Zombies, cross-posted from tumblr, novelty sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:19:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hunt goes wrong, terribly wrong, thanks to a complete dickhead, but you’re determined to make something good out of it this festive season.</p><p>--------</p><p>“What the fuck did you think you were doing?!!”</p><p>“I dunno!” Brian screeched, his 16-year-old voice spiking beyond audible noise as you pushed him through the swinging cafeteria doors.</p><p>“Go! Get in!” you pushed him past the tables, tripping on his fear-drunk heels.  You felt something hook onto your shirt and - “WaAAHAhagogogoGO!!” - you grabbed handfuls of his sweater by the shoulders and lifted, pushed, shoved him to the kitchen and almost shit a brick when you felt the fingers behind you get purchase on your tartan shirt.  “SaaAAA!HAHAM!!” you falsettoed. “DEEEEAN!  Get the fuck in heeeeere!!!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	God Rest Ye Zombied Gentlemen

**Author's Note:**

> [SPN Writing Challenge](http://spnwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/tagged/challenge:%20december%202015) | littlegreenplasticsoldier vs. prophetofcastiel
> 
> prompt: Novelty Sweaters (Dec 2015)

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?!!”

“I dunno!” Brian screeched, his 16-year-old voice spiking beyond audible noise as you pushed him through the swinging cafeteria doors.

“Go! Get in!” you pushed him past the tables, tripping on his fear-drunk heels.  Something hooked onto your shirt and - “WaAAHAhagogogoGO!!” - you grabbed handfuls of his sweater by the shoulders and lifted, pushed, shoved him to the kitchen and almost shit a brick when you felt the fingers behind you get purchase on your tartan shirt.  “SaaAAA!HAHAM!!” you falsettoed. “ _DEEEEAN!_ Get the fuck in heeeeere!!!”

You caught the sound of your name gruffly bellowed from the corridor, but you were weapon-less – thanks to this epic speed-trap, who you’re ever-so-charitably protecting from his own stupidity, fucking _throwing_ your gun at the last possessed-zombie-thing when he thought you were out of bullets, so _thanks to Brian_ – and currently near panic coz you didn’t know if the curse was contagious, and this was one alarmingly nimble shuffler with a drooling, snappy jaw and bleeding eyes already.  You felt the other hand grab more fabric and its weight started to make a difference.  Screw bravery. You began unbuttoning your shirt to free yourself.

“Into the cooler!” you yelled, and true to his self-preserving heart, Brian dashed ahead and got the hell in there, locking the door quick smart.  Without you.   _“Brian!-”_

Dean and Sam tackled the monster together, knocking it onto your lower legs and taking you down with it.  You let your shirt slip off your shoulders and flung your hands out towards the legs of a table.

“Yaaargh!” it gargled, then dug its fingertips into the top of your calf, something like a blunt cat, and pulled you along the linoleum.

“Fucking DIE!” Dean yelled, and he and Sam started manically stabbing it in the back.  The wet noise of daggers was a nice soundtrack for Dean’s quiet “Ugh… damn… this is gross” and Sam’s counting.

“What’re you doing?!” you puffed at Sam.

“-nine, ten, eleven, twelve-” he said, looking up at you, nodding his high-eyebrows, refusing to lose count.

“Dean?” You repeated, trying to wrench your legs out from the dull claws of the guy who used to run sermons here but transformed into something new a few hours ago.  “Dean?!”

He held up a finger to pause you and diligently nodded in time as he stabbed around the back of the almost-corpse, like some kind of gory whack-a-mole.

“-eighteen, nineteen, twenty!” Sam slumped back, looking at his knife before flicking away the ridiculous amount of blood he’d collected on his cuff.  

Dean dropped his dagger and wiped his hands on his thighs.  “You gotta stab'em 40 times,” he puffed and rubbed his arm.  “Ugh, my knuckles are so stiff.  There’s at least 15 monster guys here! That’s like 300 stabs each!”

“Three hundred and-  wait,” Sam frowned, “yeah 300.”

Dean glared at his brother and put a hand out to you.  “You okay?” he checked.  

“Yeah, just bruised and scared shitless,” you shrugged, unconsciously rubbing your leg.  When Dean put his hands near yours, working the bruise out of the muscle with you, you just watched his fingers work by yours - even in the dark lighting, with the fairy lights ticking green, red, grey, red, you couldn’t look at him steadily when he touched you.

“Such a waste,” you muttered, looking back down the corridor.  Four of the bodies were strewn along the path, red spatters adding to the festive garlands.    “All that knitting.”

The three of you crowded around the cooler’s door and Dean slammed the metal with his fist.  A startled whimper squeaked out from inside.  

“Brian!” Sam barked.  “It’s safe.  Come out.”

To be fair, Sam didn’t make it _sound_ safe.  He sounded pissed.

The noises of Brian unlocking and opening the door were slow and you all watched him push it wide, initially fearful and unmoving as he creaked it open, then pathetically stepping out of the chilled air. Dean waited for him to close the door behind himself before grabbing his shirt and slamming him against the wall nearby.

“Ah shit!” he cried.

“Are there any more sweaters Brian?” Dean ground out.

“Nuh- No,” Brian swallowed.  “No, just the fifteen.”

“Right,” Dean said.  “Just a note.  The next time you want to avenge your ruined weekend with shoddy, amateur witchcraft against your uncle and his lodge buddies, fucking design a counter-spell, okay?  In case you’re really as shit at this as you look.”

“I didn’t think that-”

“Brian!” Dean shocked him with his bark, “No, you don’t- seriously- you _don’t_ fucking curse a bunch of Christmas sweaters and then cry victim when it all goes zombie.  Okay?  We almost lost Y/N because of your stupidity-”

“-and me!” Brian tried.

“ _Don’t care,_ ” Dean  monotoned, laying a stony gaze of seething annoyance at the dickhead and waited for him to comprehend.  Then Dean went and used that tenor and volume that reminded your nethers of standing near subwoofers: “Never do it again.”

Brian glazed over like he’d been threatened.  Which, really, he had. “Okay, no more spells,” he nodded limply.

“No more anything, Brian,” Sam reiterated.  “Drop the whole hobby. It’s dark and dangerous and never ends well.”

“Okay,” he promised.

“Right then,” you resolved, as Dean released him.  “You got some cursed sweaters to collect.”

“What?” he breathed.

“Go on,” you nodded, “get undressing.”  And for the next hour you supervised Brian removing  sweaters from the corpses of 15 grown men. Some of them very grown.  He wasn’t the least grossed out by the blood or death, although he would tsk his tongue every time he got a new stain, and nothing he did or said even _indicated_ which one was his uncle.  You found yourself aiming a permanent scowl of disgust at him as he worked.

While Brian was removing on the last few sweaters, you dragging along the other 13 in a garbage bag, Dean arrived with some scissors.  Not so much because he took pity on the kid but it was just taking so damn long.

“Oh yeah,” Brian said thoughtlessly.  He snipped up the side of one and down the sleeve, all the way from waistband to cuff and you could’ve sworn you saw a puff of white smoke or powder billow softly from the fresh edge.  Brian pulled the whole thing off the body by the other sleeve and stood to hand it to you, saying “Yeah, I forgot.  If the sweater is cut, like if you cut the loop on the body that’s wearing it, the whole thing stops working.”  He wiped his hands on his pants, not realising that you and Dean were staring curses at him.

“Do you mean to say…” Dean started.  “Brian, you clusterfucking moron-  Do you mean we could’ve cut the sweaters off them and they would’ve de-zombied?”

“Yeah,” he sighed.  Dean walked a tight circle of furious frustration, putting a fist to his forehead, while Brian kept talking.  “I mean, the stabbing was the main way to do it, but the thing about “the loop being broken, and they will be re-woken”, I just left it in.”

You stared at him some more.  “Brian…” you began,  “did we just kill 15 people?!! When we asked you how to end it- Holy shit Brian! _They coulda lived!!_ ”

“It rhymed,” he shrugged.

“Brian, I’m going to say this once so listen good,” you pointed at him as your voice rose, jacking up to hysteria within a sentence.  “You’re a murderer.  By proxy, but still, a stone-cold murderer!”

“But you-”

“No! _You!_ ” you yelled.  “You told us that this was the way they’re stopped and you were thoughtless and wrong.  These deaths are on _you_ , **not us** \- ohmygod, I’m gunna throw up-”

“Well, they were pretty old guys anyway…”

You and Dean looked at each other, both of you pale and mindless with anger, and all you could manage to say was “Nnnnnot too hard.”

Dean’s punch landed sweetly on Brian’s cheek bone and he toppled over like a newborn giraffe, wetly cushioned by the portly gent with the white, and red, beard.  Sam and Dean abandoned their daggers, which somehow found their way into Brian’s palms.

* * *

“I’m really not interested in those things being in the bunker, Y/N,” Dean warned from the driver’s seat.

“It’s ok,” you said simply, “I’ll snip them all.”

“Y/N-”

“Seriously, Dean, I’ll snip them so the curse breaks and they’ll be fine.  Look at this,” you gathered one you’d cut already, “look at this intarsia work!  It’s so even and fine!  This is sport-weight yarn, and look this one has six colours in one section. Dean, do you know how hard it is, how long it takes, to get this sort of handiwork even and balanced?”

“I don’t even know,” he sighs.

“Yeah, there’s, like, years worth of work and expertise in these things. These guys were loved by some makers.  We’ve butchered over a dozen men for no good reason,” you said harshly, your chin threatening to give it all away.  “We couldn’t save anyone today.  I’m fucking saving the sweaters,” you insisted.

Sam looked over at Dean and wondered just what kind of fall-out there might be from this hunt.  They dimpled their cheeks and looked at the road, ignoring the industrious snipping noises from the back seat.

* * *

A few days later and Christmas already loomed everywhere.  This was your first holiday season in the bunker and you didn’t know what the guys usually did.  Your intention was to decorate a little at the least.  You had an idea of red and silver ornaments, warm lanterns, maybe something that went with 30s decor, but a hunt came up and that’s as far as your thoughts got.  When you did bring it up with the them you got a gruff “There’s a box of stuff in storage.” You trusted Dean meant uncursed stuff.  Maybe you should’ve asked after eating.

* * *

Mercifully you got a break.  Another hunt was done and you remember blindly landing atop your bed, pulling the comforter over yourself, thinking “Tomorrow, I’ll start all that tomorrow.”

Turned out tomorrow was Dec 23.  You frowned at your phone’s calendar, wondering how it became Christmas Eve eve already.  No gifts, no decorations, no special food… not yet anyway.  You were still frowning at breakfast.

“What happened to December?” you asked them over toast.

“Same thing that happened to No-time-November, Fuctober and Sucktember,” Dean quipped, sitting next to you.  “Back to back hunts.”

“Yeah,” you groaned ruefully.  “S'not fair.”

“Never is,” Sam sighed and yawned.  None of you had actually cut even on rest this time yet.

“I haven’t had time to get any gifts,” you confessed.

“That’s okay,” Sam assured.  “We can do it later if you want.”

“No,” you whined, “No, you guys have had me here and it’s been great and I really wanted to give thanks and celebrate…”  

“We haven’t had a chance to shop for you either,” he admitted.

“Speaking of, what do you want?” Dean asked.  His thigh against yours was probably unconnected to that question.

You bit your lips together and reminded your pulse to calm the hell down over thighs.  “Nothing in particular, but…” you started to form an idea.  “How about we just make the place nice and have some good food?…” By the end of the meal you’d allocated yourselves to frilling up the joint a little and at least indulging in some good food.

By lunchtime the next day, Dean and Sam were sharing beers as they prepared the food, only marginally wondering where you’d gotten off to for the past day.  Neither of them had needed your help in the end, finding the familiar and seamless company of each other useful enough, and you had apparently gotten into some sort of Yuletide project they didn’t want to interrupt.  

So dinner rolled around and Parkinson’s law became your own little Christmas miracle:  Turns out when it comes to making gifts it really will take as long as you’ve got.

At the table lay the Men of Letters fancy pants cutlery, table linen, the whole kit.  “We’re using a gravy boat!” announced Dean as he entered with the roast.

“Holy shit!” you took a moment to look at it all – pork, sauce, gravy, veggies and even dumplings – and with the lanterns Sam had bought reflecting off all the tinsel and dark wood, a warm glow bathing everything around you, it was just bloody magical.

“One minute!” you blabbed and ran back to your room to chuck on a nice dress, a bit of eye liner and softly pin your hair back.  When you re-entered the library, Sam and Dean were sitting and waiting before they began their meals.  Sam nodded in acknowledgement as you approached and Dean turned to see, leaning back in his chair to watch you come to the table.  This time you let your eyes land on his, deciding that your sheepish smile could be about your modest effort at being decorative and not about the fact that he was really looking at you.  But then he smiled, an open and soft smile that looked like he was about to speak, but wasn’t, and you held your breath as you sat down to begin.

“Why are there four crackers here?” you asked Sam.

“They come in packs of twelve.”

“Awesome!” you exclaimed, finding Dean equally excited about stupid jokes and tiny trash.  

You dug in, saving the crackling till last.  By the end of the meal you were all wearing four paper hats and had declared all the jokes sinfully bad.  

But that crackling – shattering easily, melting instantly – you reached out and grabbed Dean’s wrist.  “Oh my fuck,” you mumbled, and put your other hand over your eyes.  “Jesus, dogs and Christ, I’m gonna cry.”

Sam and Dean started laughing at you.  “This is just… mother of crap, it’s perfect.” He put his hand over yours, firmly enough that you couldn’t pull away, even needing to feed yourself with your one spare hand.  You saw Sam glance at the hold, but Dean was talking to you about how he’d made the meal, and you weren’t about to not listen, so Sam just watched it all happen.

And happen it did.  Your hearing dulled a little, your mind working parallel on itself to respond to his words while feeling his warm, smooth palm on your skin and watching him talk to you so happily. Your best effort amounted to smiling cheeks and encouraging eyes and simply not pulling any part of yourself away.

Soon Dean wrapped it up with “Anyway, I’m gonna go get the pies,” and lifted your hand off his arm so he could collect the plates and go.

You picked up your drink and leaned back in your chair, staring at your place matt a moment while you got your bearings.  On the other side of the table Sam was watching you and upon eye contact he smiled lowly and kicked an eyebrow at you.

Before you even heard yourself, you were calling “You want some help?”, pulling off all your hats and popping out of your chair for the kitchen.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean called and you were doing a lazy jog to catch up, only meeting him at the kitchen bench itself, the dishes already in the sink.  

“Wow, two pies,” you said, coming to lean sideways on the counter.

“Yeah,” he answered but he wasn’t really chatting, or stopping, or slowing down, just kept turning past the pies and slid a hand along your waist, making your eyes snap up to his, then only inches away and quickly much closer as he leaned in and held you in both hands, pulling your belly to his and turning your back to the bench.  

You both swayed with the momentum and breathed each other in as you watched him look over you.  “You sure?” was all you gave out.

Dean settled his gaze on your eyes, nose close enough to brush yours as he nodded, then watched you as your lips met.  

The sensation was like a pillow to the head for you.  Your eyes fell closed and you sucked a deep breath in, surprised at the fullness and warmth, swimming in a familiar scent and electrified over every millimetre of skin, from inside your ears down to right between your toes.  

Right between your big toes too.  

You gave a short hum and he moaned back, which was just _everything_. Were you really talking in hums and moans now? Because his lips are on yours and he wants them there?!  You pulled back to look at him again, barely believing he’d done this.  

“You okay?” he asked.  “This okay?”

You slid your fingers up his neck and around his ears, whispering _Oh my God_ to yourself and muffling half of it against his mouth when you pulled him down.  He smiled against you and pulled you into his body so tightly he was lifting your heels off the floor.

You rolled the kiss, letting it open and slide as he pushed his palms up your back and around your waist and you rubbed your legs over his. Quickly, though, you remembered, mumbling “Sam,” and when he dragged his lips over your cheek and under your ear, you added “and pie.”

“Mmm,” Dean answered, “he can have the pies.”

You laughed at him breathlessly, squeezed his shoulder and said “Huh, well, I’m sure he knows what’s going on here, he’s probably earned them already.”

“Hmm,” Dean seemed to agree, “but yeah, we should go back out.”

He slowed himself and leaned back a little, only drawing your attention to what remained in contact – your waists and thighs, his hands and now the way he looked at you, with warmth and smouldering anticipation.

The two of you came back to the table with hands full of dessert and plates.  Dean gave nothing away but you were glad your shake and blush was somewhat concealed by the lighting.  Sam couldn’t talk with a straight face, all his words pulled sideways by his smile.

A few serves of pie later – one pecan and one apple and blackberry – and Dean confessed: “I actually do have gifts.”

“No! You asshole!” you cried.  “I thought we weren’t doing that!”

“I already had them!” he defended happily.

“Fuck!”

“Yeah, I already had one too,” Sam admitted, “but nothing for you I’m afraid Y/N.  I just haven’t seen anything that was right.”

“Ugh, thank God,” you deflated.  “That’s okay though, it means it’s one each, even if I did nothing and _Dean did two_.” You scowled at Dean for his uncharacteristic preparedness and he grinned back.

“Here you go,” he said and slid the two parcels across the table to you and Sam. “Merry Christmas!”

“You too,” Sam replied, handing over his gift to Dean.

Dean had found Sam a watch.  The model had been his favourite a while ago but it had been discontinued and Dean came across one in a second hand store during one of those let’s-collect-the-haunted-estate jobs. Sam was delighted, putting it on straight away and full of earnest thanks.

Sam had given Dean a new dagger – something to replace the one he’d actually really liked and had to leave with stupid Brian.  “Well, I know how much you like a well-balanced weapon,” Sam remarked and Dean nodded enthusiastically.

You’d opened your gift while they’d opened theirs, not trusting yourself to say the right thing at all.  Instead you’d quietly cracked the small case - Dean being careful to not actually watch when you did - and did your best to reign in your smile as you looked at the chain and pendant, running your fingers over the angular tear-drop shape set with tiny stones.

“You keep saying how you like the style of the bunker,” he explained, “and I found this when I found the watch.  It’s art deco, I think.”

“Yeah,” you smiled at him openly, nodding to confirm.  “It’s gorgeous.” And you put the necklace on, running your fingertips over the pendant again and holding it tight as you smiled at him some more.  “I love it,” you told him, watching him yank his gaze from your hand at your neck to grin again, something you felt through your body from swallow to seat.

Clean up was abandoned for later and everyone headed to the lounge room for a movie, but before you could even leave the room Dean turned to you saying “Okay, Y/N, can I just check: the thing you’ve been working on?  What’s that all about?”

“Oh yeah! Wait here.”  You dashed off to your room and collect the project, unable to keep yourself from smiling as you came back to them in the library.  You unfolded the quilt and threw it over the table top.  

The festive squares and rectangles unfurled before you, sections of snowflakes and Nordic patterns stretching out, interspersed with odd panels of snowmen, reindeer with bobble noses and even a few baubles and trees.  It was mismatched, everything using a slightly different shade of red, white or green and were it not for the unifying theme of Christmas, would be ugly as all shit.

Sam and Dean looked at you helplessly, unsure of how to take the whole idea, and glanced at each other for help.

“So… I know it’s a bit grim,” you said, trying to relieve the tension.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, “they’re dead guy clothes-”

“You wear dead man robes!” you defended.

“It’s a legacy!”

“Dean, robes are not a legacy,” you frowned. “Look, seriously, these garments were made with love, like shit-tonnes of love.  You don’t knit something like this for just anyone.  We couldn’t give them back once they were off, we couldn’t undo the fuck up Brian created, but I couldn’t let it all go to waste and just…” you sighed, almost nauseous with second thoughts.  “…I _washed_ them.”

Nervously, you keep talking and hope it’ll bring them around:  “Look.  We didn’t just not save anyone, we _killed people_.  And yeah they were raging zombie things at the time but it was completely reversible, apparently, and even though, on paper, we weren’t really at fault, it just felt-”

“Y/N,” Dean cut in, coming around Sam to meet you. “It’s cool, we get it. You wanted something good out of that hunt.”

“Yeah. Yes,” you nodded, “ _Something_ saved.”

“Well…” Sam started, “it is kinda beautiful.”

“You know what,” Dean offered tentatively with jolting shrugs, “everything we own comes from dead people.  In fact, most of our friends are dead people.”

You cleared your throat and wondered if Sam’s expression was the same as yours because fuck that was a clunky effort.

Dean clears his throat, venturing “So is this for… your room?”  He actually takes a casual step backward and leans away from the gift.

He and Sam looked at you painfully and suddenly you realise you’ve left a bit out:  “Oh! No! It’s for Brian!”

“Wait,” Sam said, looking a little put out.  “This Brian? Brian-who-had-us-murder-a-bunch-of-people Brian?”

“Yeah,” you shrugged defensively.  “The people who loved these sweaters!”

“No offence, Y/N, but why the hell would you make him anything?” Dean asked.

“I was thinking we could curse it,” you suggested, “before we give it to him.”

Sam and Dean look at you again, slack jawed, and Sam breathed “Remind me to never cross you, okay?”

You laughed a little and pulled out a slip of paper saying  “Look I found this,” as you handed it over.  “It’s like a little comeuppance spell where you only get as good as you’ve given and, for fun, if you are _actually_ good, like truly selflessly good, you can kind of work it off.  Now, I know he’s already in prison, but I reckon he could weasel his way outta there well before his time… so, whaddya think?”

Dean threw an arm over your shoulders and kissed the side of your head. “Okay, _now_ I’m on board.”


End file.
